


The Nerve III

by orphan_account



Series: The Nerve [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Acadamy Is..., The Brobecks
Genre: Anxiety, Crimes & Criminals, Delusional Disorder, Drug Dealing, Ex criminal, M/M, Mental Hospital, OCD, Obsessive Behavior, Sexual Content, Smut, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 19:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13418352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What would Dallon do if Brendon didn't have the nerve to follow him to an asylum? Dallon honestly doesn't know. Brendon doesn't know, either. Love gets in the way of all insanities. The final sequel to the original fic, "The Nerve." Dallon's point of view.





	The Nerve III

**Patrick’s Office**

“Hey, Dallon,” the sweet guy greets me as I close the door behind me.

 

“Hi, Patrick.” I smile and take the white leather seat opposite him.

 

He places his forearms on the table to push his chair closer. “So, how did you get on after our session yesterday? You didn’t feel too overwhelmed, did you? We went quite deep, so it’s understandable if you did.” Yesterday, we got to one of the main roots of my “problems,” apparently. I don’t quite yet see how mommy trying everything she can take make me happy is a problem, but that’s what today’s session is for, I’m guessing.

 

“No, I felt fine.” I nod.

 

“That’s good to hear. You are very strong, dealing with things, ensuring they don’t get to you. You don’t think that’s an act of suppression, do you?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Okay,” he purses his lips and nods. “So, picking up from where we left off yesterday, I’d like to ask you a few more questions regarding your relationship with your mother.” I nod for him to continue. “Why do _you_ think she was always trying so hard to keep you happy?”

 

I lean back and raise my hands, questioning, “Well, what mother wants to see their child grow up to be unhappy and fearsome?”

 

“Has your mother shown any other signs of… excessive worrying, maybe?”

 

I’m about to say ‘no’ in her defence, but then I actually think about it. “Yes,” I tell him, “God, her face when I was leaving for the… uh… road trip thing I spoke to you about. Whether she wanted to show it or not, her face was paralysed with fear. I guess she had her reasons, seeing as what I did was in fact far from moral or probably even legal, but she didn’t know _shit_ about what I was planning, therefore left her with no real reason to worry.”

 

Nodding thoughtfully, he looks towards the corner of the ceiling. He looks towards me again and asks, “Has your mother’s strong facade of optimism ever resulted in any cases of her lying to you that you know of?”

 

I really don’t want to admit to this, but it’s fucking therapy, so I tell him, “Yes. On many occasions.” That poor woman has bent over backwards in attempt to make me happy, the same way she’s bent the truth.

 

“What are your thoughts on that?”

 

“She did what she had to do; I guess I don’t blame her. When money’s tight or mommy and daddy get into a fight, you don’t put that on the little one, now do you?”

 

“No, Dallon, but you don’t lie excessively.” He tilts his head. Sassy Dr. Stump is in the room, Jesus. To be fair, somebody has to put me in my place and that’s what he’s here for. “Last week, we came up with Delusional Disorder. I feel as though we are now getting to the root cause. What do you think?”

 

“Basically, you’re saying it’s my mom’s fault.” I roll my eyes. Over these past two weeks, I’ve put all my faith in Patrick and considered my hope in him reasonable. I thought he wasn’t like a lot of other therapists, but clearly, they’re all the same. Fucking hell.

 

“No, I’m saying that the reason for your delusional thinking is from growing up with untruthfulness. You seem uncomfortable with that, so I’d like for you to tell me why that is. I’m here to listen, not pry. If you disagree, then that’s fine by me.”

 

“I get it, you know. You’re right; it probably is her fault. The reason I reacted in frustration is that all I’ve ever known about therapy is that they’ll probably just end up blaming the parents. It’s cliché. It’s in all the movies. It’s in all the real talk. Now that I think about it and consider the circumstances, it truly could be the root to my problem.” I sigh after getting all of my frustrations off my chest and managing to come to some sort of calming conclusion mid-speech.

 

“Hey, that was good of you to think that way. I can see all the cogs that were just whirring in your mind and the thoughts coming clear.” I nod in agreement – not to be cocky, but because that _was_ progress.

 

“So… sure, now we know I’m a deluded shit for a reason, but now what? How am I supposed to stop?” I shrug and shake my head.

 

“Do you really want it to stop, Dallon? I want you to think about it. Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me what you think.”

 

I stare into the depths of the wooden desk that divides us. If my delusion is that I can get away with anything and that the world is fucking indescribably amazing and that sex is the only thing I need, I don’t want to be cured. “No,” I say, “I don’t want the delusions to stop.” For the first time ever, my words are somehow concerning me.

 

“And why’s that?” he asks in a harmless, little voice enveloped with comfort.

 

“If my _problems_ are confidence, optimism and a love of sex, then I don’t want them to be solved.”

 

“I can understand your worries, but you really won’t be giving up on anything you love. What makes you stable and content can stay. It’s your thoughts and feelings that need the help. Have you thought about getting a therapist long term once you leave here?”

 

“No, Patrick. Besides you and Pete, therapists are nothing but fucking twats. You’re amazing, though,” I tell him. “I mean it,” I add.

 

“Thank you, Dallon. That’s kind of you to say and I appreciate it.” He smiles and goes a hint pink. “I know of two actual great therapists that you can see out of here, if you’re interested.” I nod and he passes two cards from in front of his computer over to me. I take them and look up, smiling as a silent ‘thank you.’ He continues, “Take it from me, they’re great friends of mine and they’re really good guys.” I look back down at the cards. The one in front reads a number, followed by ‘Joseph Trohman, counselling and therapy.” I put that one to the back, revealing the second card that reads ‘Frank Iero’ and another number and email address.

 

“I was thinking… maybe it’s time that I left? I’ve been here for two weeks and I’ve gotten quite far, I’m sure you’d agree. So… how does that work?” I’m not even trying to sneak out; I genuinely believe I’m finished here.

 

“Yes, well, I do think that it’s safe for you to go back out there and continue to get help elsewhere. Considering the progress you’ve made, it would be slightly unnecessary to keep you behind closed doors. For you to leave, you’d have to talk to Pete about a referral letter to dismiss you, which I can help with during the process of reviewing.”

 

“Thank you.” I smile.

 

“When do you see Pete? Later today?” he asks.

 

“In an hour. I think I’ll just go and play ping pong whilst I wait,” I laugh.

 

He grins back warm-heartedly. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Dallon.”

 

I get out of my seat, heading towards the door and reply, “Yes, goodbye.”

 

 

**Pete’s Office**

“Hey buddy,” he greets me as I walk through the door.

 

I lift my head and reply, “Hey, dude.” Such a typical therapist-patient relationship.

 

As I sit on the chair and make myself comfortable, he asks me, “So, what’s this about Patrick telling me you think you’re ready to leave now?”

 

“I really think I am,” conviction and pride shows in my voice.

 

“That’s great to hear,” he smiles. Pete _usually_ has this _signature smile_ – it’s a jokey one where the sides of his eyes crinkle and his cheeks lift. His teeth show a little, too – the point is, he always smiles the same. However, this smile is more so… an emotionally connecting one. One that I’d never really expected of him. It’s just a smile, and I’m over-analysing, but what else am I supposed to do, being held back from the busy life of the real world? The hectic has been replaced by the four bare walls and blue patient uniforms. Although, that’s not to say that I haven’t had a very interesting and pleasant experience, here with my boyfriend and a few nut-jobs.

 

“Well, if you’d like to leave and Patrick feels that it’s the mature and correct decision, then it’s now my job to write you a letter inquiring a discharge. First, I need to ask you some questions.” Fucking _questions_! I’m finding it a struggle to hold back a _long_ sigh and eye roll. He clicks some shit on his computer and turns to ask me the first question, “Any suicidal thoughts?”

 

I fall back into my chair. “Nope,” I sigh.

 

“Have you had a panic attack in the last week?” What kind of a question is that? That’s so random. This shit is stupid.

 

“No.”

 

“Thoughts of self harming?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you feel you’ve made progress in the time you’ve been here?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“On a scale of one to ten?”

 

“Eight.”

 

“Great. Now, I just have to fill out some questions, too, and we should be good. So, tell me, what did you and Patrick cover this session?” Therapists always ask questions, even when they’re your friends, I’ve come to learn. It just depends on what the questions is that determines whether it pisses you off or not. This question I don’t mind.

 

“We finished up on the subject of my childhood and parents and how that’s had an affect on my disorder and then went on to talk about recovery outside of here.” That makes it sound like I was fucking abused. I’m not excusing my mom for her lies and sins, but it’s not like I was continuously smacked. Like I said when I first got here, _daddy hit mommy and I sometimes, but that’s nothing nobody else ain’t experienced._

He continues to type into the computer for a short while before continuing the conversation, “And what steps do you plan on taking to continue recovery, then?”

 

“Uhh, not selling any more drugs and going to see a therapist,” I say. “Patrick actually gave me two cards, one was for Joe something, and the other was this dude Frank Iero, I think.”

 

“Joe Trohman? He’s great. ‘Trick and I hang out with him a lot. Great dude. As for Frank, I don’t know him too well, but he plays for some small band with my ex in his spare time.”

 

“Ah, okay. Thanks.”

 

He clicks one last time, more dramatic and louder than the other clicks and turns to me. “Well, you’re free to leave for dinner, now. And, most likely, you’ll be free to leave this whole place in a couple days, too. I’ve sent off the letter.”

 

“Thank you so much. Will I still be coming to you and Patrick until then?”

 

“I’d say go to Patrick for one more session and also come to me tomorrow for more news on the discharge.”

 

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

 

“Bye, Dall.”

 

 

**Dallon & Brendon’s Room**

Right now is the period in the day, between dinner and the acceptable time to go to sleep, that we know all too well. We’re both lying on our separate beds in the almost silence with only the tedious ticking of the clock and occasional huffs as fillers.

 

Another huff from Brendon comes, this time accompanied with speech, “I’m horny.” Oh. Well, at least _that’s_ something.

 

I turn my head to him to see him looking up at the ceiling. He then turns his, meeting my gaze with a small grin. I roll my eyes. “Well you would be, wouldn’t you?”

 

“ _Please_ fuck me,” he whispers, “I can’t wait until we get out. I need you _now_.”

 

Why the fuck would I resist? I climb off my bed and onto his. He sits up eagerly and I straddle him, giving him desperate kisses. We’re on the same level here. We both want it _so_ fucking bad. This won’t affect my recovery, so it shouldn’t even be against the rules. I’m going to give my boyfriend and I exactly what we need: a good lay. A nice ol’ fuck. God, I’m gonna give it to him.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Now,” he begs and tugs his shorts down beneath me.

 

“Bren.” I put my hand on his thigh to stop him. “You know we’re going to have to do it bareback, right?” I tell him, only just realising this myself.

 

“Fuck it. I’m clean. I trust you. We’ve been together for a long time now and God _damn_ it, I just want you inside me.” He’s now proceeding to pull my shorts down for me, revealing my hard dick, red and erect. “That looks tasty; let me take care of that,” he says. He strokes my length and takes me into his mouth. I realise that I’m not going to last long, so I stick my fingers into my mouth and use them to trace his hole. I put them back into my mouth for more saliva, resulting in a moan from the hot man whose mouth has my dick in. This time, I push in a finger and build up to three with the encouragement of the gorgeous noises coming from him. I continue working inside of him, twisting my digits, driving him crazy until I feel my dick start to pulse and groans almost escape from me.

 

I pull out of his mouth and lay him down. Before he can even beg his usual _‘come on, Dal, please, fuck,’_ I line my dick up to his entrance and push in. Fuck he’s tight. He almost winces at the first push. Damn it’s been too long.

 

I thrust inside of him and he moans way too loud. I hush him by placing a finger over his lips and say, “I know, baby, it’s so fucking good and I missed this, more than you could imagine but, please, you’ve got to try and keep quiet just this once if you don’t want it to stop.”

 

I thrust faster and deeper and he starts panting. Between breaths, he says, “How am I,” breath, “supposed to,” breath, “shut up,” breath, “now,” breath “when you,” breath, “called me,” breath, “ _baby_ ,” he finishes with a moan and comes. I thrust a few more times, trying my best to hold back, but that face of fucking _bliss_ in front of me that’s moving his ass and body up and down slowly, riding out the orgasm, _that_ makes me come.

 

I fall on top of him and he laughs against my chest, “we didn’t last very long.”

 

“Who would after being starved from it for two weeks?”

 

“Certainly not me,” he laughs again.

 

“Me neither.” I roll over to lay next to him in the minimal space of his single bed. I play with his hair and start to speak, “You’re just so beautiful and perfect and I don’t want to wait to touch you. I want to give you everything. I just want to see you moaning, filled with pleasure. No, I just want to see you _content_. You deserve everything.” His eyes water as they meet mine and we both go in for a kiss. I continue, “I know I never treated you like this when we first met, or even viewed you as this, but God do I see you differently. I just had to get to know you, first. Evidently that changed everything,” I sigh and smile. “You’re amazing,” I tell him.

 

“Dallon, I love you so much. Oh my God. I can’t wait to get out of here.” That reminds me of something…

 

“Hey, actually, today I asked my therapist to write a letter to let me leave. Maybe you should do the same tomorrow, if you feel you’re ready, of course.”

 

“Yeah, I think I’m ready,” he nods and sucks in a breath.

 

“Are you sure?” I ask, unconvinced.

 

“Yeah, no, I am, but I don’t think I can just go back to normal, you know? I think I need to keep seeing somebody when I get out of here.”

 

“Me too. My therapist actually gave me two cards. You can have one of them and I’ll see the other.”

 

“That sounds good to me.” He smiles.

 

**Obsessive/Compulsive Support Group**

“Alright, everyone’s here,” the therapist says and sits down on the small empty sofa. “The topic of discussion today is obsession and stalking.”

 

Brendon stiffens and looks to the side, away from me. He rubs his neck and wipes his palms on his legs. I take one of his hands and hold it in attempt to comfort him. He hesitantly turns his head, but meets my eyes and gives me an appreciative look. He swallows and returns his attention towards the front.

 

As uncomfortable as this session might make him feel, he really needs this. He obviously talks about it with his therapist, so he shouldn’t be feeling too anxious. Maybe it’s because _I’m_ here with him.

 

When the guy speaking turns to discuss with another patient and seems wrapped up enough, I whisper in his ear, “I love you.”

 

He purses his lips and tugs them into a smile. His eyes are watering, but he’ll be okay because it gets worse before it gets better.

 

 

**Discharge**

Brendon and I sit side by side, hand in hand waiting to be let out. Another patient, William Beckett, is also waiting to be dismissed too. What I’ve learnt about him is that he’s cute, gay and puppy-dog sad. I can see the misconception they might have had when putting him in here – his little face could easily be mistaken for a storm of depression, but that’s simply incorrect.

 

A nurse finally comes up to us and greets us with a smile. “I’m here to let you out,” she informs us and waves her lanyard with a key attached to it. She unlocks the door and holds it open, telling us “Stay safe, boys.”

 

We head out of the gate together and I wave goodbye to William. We walk our separate paths and Brendon stops and looks at me. I stop too and kiss him desperately and with force. “We made it out,” Brendon whispers and smiles.

 

“I can make it out of anywhere with you. If you didn’t have the nerve to follow me, I don’t know what I would have done.”

 

“Don’t feed my insanity,” he says and shakes his head, casting his eyes to the floor.

 

I lift his head, “You’re feeding mine too, you know. But that’s okay. I’ll let you because I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> The last one! BLEH! - I don't know what that was, but I felt as though that onomatopoeia was necessary. Thank you all for reading.
> 
> \- Nicole xx


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